


ruby red

by orphan_account



Series: don't disappoint me [1]
Category: Easy Allies RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - GTA Setting, Anxiety, Drug Use, Illegal Allies, Murder, Overdosing, Panic Attacks, Self-Hatred, Suicide, look okay this is a gta au what did you expect to happen here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 18:58:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7726000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>kyle never wanted this, he never wanted any of this, but he had to survive and live and thrive and he couldn't do any of that if he was living on the streets. he grabs the opportunity with both hands when it's presented. and there is nothing in his life that he hates more that taking it, except maybe himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ruby red

He has salt in his lungs, salt in his body, it’s what he gets for being next to the ocean, it’s what he gets for living here, for being here, for trying to survive here. It’s his comeuppance, so to speak, for coming up in a place like this, for coming of age on a place like this, for coming to his senses in a place like this. His skin is almost always stretched tight, almost always wrinkled, he blames the sea spray and the constant water, but the ocean doesn’t cause stress lines, that’s all his fault. He has a reason to be salty and most of it is this city, most of it is this ocean, most of it is him. Yeah. Most of it is him.

He didn’t start off salty, contrary to popular belief. He was a happy kid. Well, he was a naive kid, but when you’re under thirteen years old, happiness and obliviousness are one and the same. 

He doesn’t remember a lot of his childhood, he doesn’t want to most of the time, but then sometimes… Sometimes he misses her.

He doesn’t actually remember much about her, either. It’s mostly soft hands, soft spoken words, soft touches as she brushes hair out of his face, soft whispers as red and blue lights flood the streets outside and she tells him that everything will be okay. Barely taken breaths as she tries to calm him down, tries to get him to breathe again, she’s a hypocrite. Her hands are cold. Her breath is warm. Her face is a blur. He can’t remember what she looks like. Tall and light haired and ruby red lipstick and nothing else. Except one more thing.

Her body on the floor of their dingy apartment and he can see every part of that scene perfectly in his mind. He can see the peeling paint and the growing mold and the folded carpet and her pale hands clutching a fluorescent orange bottle and white pills spread across the floor her hair in tangles and smudged lipstick and gangly limbs sprawled across the floor and her non-existent breath and her cooling body and he can remember the feel of the tears on his face as he called the police and the names of the workers that took her away, but he can not for the life of him remember her face.

Everything blurs together again after that. There were questions, notes scribbled down in black ink on a clipboard, pills shoved down his throat, white pills (like the ones that killed his mother), and he was thrown into the system without another care.

There wasn’t enough there, there never was, no matter how many homes he was put into, there was always someone younger, someone smaller, someone frailer, more in need of a full meal and comfort and love and Kyle was left to scrounge by, alone. He knew this, he was no longer oblivious, that died with his mother, that left with her body.

So, he learned the streets. There wasn’t much else to turn to and everyone else did it, so shouldn’t he? Petty crime was easy. A wallet here, a wallet there, business men don’t look twice at skinny kids with baggy clothes. They probably should though, they should’ve learned that after being in Los Santos for so long, the kids that look like they have no one taking care of them are the most dangerous because they will put nothing above themselves, they have nothing to put above themselves. 

Kyle hides in plain sight, ghosting his way through foster home after foster home, barely scraping by, barely surviving, but he’s there. He watches younger kids get adopted, watches younger kids find families, watches older kids become progressively bitter as they grow closer to eighteen and he doesn’t realize that he’s doing the same. 

He gets out when he’s sixteen, steals away in the dead of night. He couldn’t stay there anymore, couldn’t stay around all those kids with dying hope and dying dreams and dying eyes. So, he bolted. Looks for work in the back alleys, the shady clubs, he just needs enough money to get by.

It’s a plus that he’s always been tall, it makes him look a lot older, and he can hide his skinny frame under loose hoodies and baggy jeans. It makes it easier for him to get jobs. He falls in with a gang in the back streets. With a hand on his back and a firm warning from the leader of ‘don’t disappoint me’, he becomes a drug runner, he takes a cut. It’s… Okay.

But it’s really not because this is what killed his mother with her shaking hands and wild eyes and tracked arms and here he is… Here he is ruining other people’s lives with white pills and fairy dust and… He can justify it because he needs this money. He needs it so much, but does he need it more than some people need their lives? It scares him when his instinct answers ‘yes’.

He needs the money, God, he needs the money, so he works hard. Sells. Moves stock. The gang is impressed, he becomes their little token, drug dealing diamond in the rough. He sneaks into clubs and gets underaged girls hooked on molly and sells dancers LSD for what he calls a bargain, but it’s really just twice as expensive.

And then, and then in one of those seedy clubs with ruby red lights and bad flooring, he sees something. It’s hot among all the bodies on the inside, with all the movement, the weird frenzy that the drugs bring out, and he slips into the back parking lot where the air is so much cooler and he can finally breathe again and there’s not so many people. 

And there’s a man seizing on the pavement.

Kyle rushes forward, shakes this guy, which probably doesn’t help, but he stares up at Kyle with eyes blown too wide, too unfocused, and he murmurs something, choking on his words, and then his head lolls to the side. There is ruby red blood on his lips. Kyle stands, backs away, horrified, doesn’t stop until his back is pressed against the wall. This isn’t one of his customers, he’s never seen him before, but this same thing could be happening to someone he sold to earlier that day. Oh God. Oh  _ God _ .

He tries to wean people off after that, give regular customers less and less until they don’t come back anymore, give new customers something cut with something else that isn’t as strong so it won’t become so controlling so quickly. He’s trying to help, he wants so much to help, because for all he knows somewhere in some apartment there’s a gangly, skinny kid sobbing over the corpse of their parent who overdosed on drugs that Kyle sold them. And then that kid grows up and turns out like him and it’s a vicious cycle of dying parents and crying children and he doesn’t want to perpetuate that. Kyle doesn’t want more kids like him left on the streets, he can’t have that, he just can’t. It would be bad for him, more people competing for the money that he needs, but it would be so much worse for them. He’s not being selfless, he’s not, he’s concerned for himself and his own well-being and not anyone else. He can’t be selfless. That’s one of the first lessons he learned after his childhood evaporated like oil on a hot pan, he has to put himself first. He has to come first.

The gang finds out, of course they do. They got suspicious after their little cash cow stopped bringing in as much money, stopped moving as much stock, became cagier, got less willing to go to the clubs and slip things to the dancers and the drinkers and the couples looking for a good time. He gets ran out, punched and bloodied and spat on and warned never to come back, to never even get close to this part of the city again. Wiping blood from his face onto his sleeves, he cries, crouched in a dirty alleyway, and he sobs with his heart in his throat and his head in his hands and ruby red bruises on his neck.

It is not a good time to be Kyle Bosman.

He still needs to make rent, still needs to make enough money to support himself, still needs to make enough. He needs to stop ending people’s lives second hand through overdoses and addictions.

So, Kyle steps it up a notch, goes straight to hand to hand, killing people himself. He never meant to, it wasn’t what he was supposed to do, he never wanted it to be like this, but here he is. A knife in his hand. A body in front of him. Standing in an alley. Everything bad happens in an alley.

There is bile rising in his throat and his breath is coming too quickly again and his hands are covered in blood and his hands are in his hair and there’s blood in his hair now and everything is tinged ruby red. What is he supposed to do, what is he supposed to do, what is supposed to happen after this, he never learned about this, God, he never learned about this, what is he supposed to do?

He does the only thing he can think of. He kneels down, trying not to gag again as the smell of iron hits him, and he searches the body. Takes the man’s wallet. Takes the man’s gun. Runs.

He washes the blood from his hands in the kitchen sink of his tiny apartment. The gun lays on the counter, taunting and cold and glaring and reminding. He flips through the man’s wallet, reads his I.D.. He feels sick again and he tosses the card into a drawer, slamming it shut. He doesn’t need to look at it. He can’t bring himself to look at it. 

He takes a shower. Stands under the water until his skin is red hot and he can still feel the  _ blood _ . It’s under his nails and in his hair and dripping down over his brow and he doesn’t think that he’s ever going to get it off of him.

And if he won’t ever get the blood to disappear, he might as well go with it. He might as well make some money because he’s already at his lowest point and he can’t go any further down, he can’t dig his grave any deeper than it already is.

He can do this. Yeah. He can do this.

It doesn’t stop him from wanting to vomit whenever he gets a job, whenever he kill someone with a dead man’s gun, whenever he tosses another I.D. into that drawer, whenever he gets a payment. He just feels sick of himself. But he doesn’t stop. It blurs together and it becomes his life.

He’s standing in line at his bank, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie and hunched over, trying not to draw any attention to himself. He can’t stop himself from wondering, wondering how many people here actually have stable lives and stable jobs and have never felt another person’s blood on their hands. He tucks himself farther into his hoodie, someone here can probably hear him, can hear his thoughts and his ramblings and his fears. He needs to stop thinking and he tries to quiet his mind, tries to choke it out and drown the words.

There’s gunfire and Kyle freezes. Somebody kicks open the door.

“Everybody get on the ground!” There’s someone in a long white dress and Kyle’s immediate thought is that it’s going to be hard to get blood off of it which is a shame, because it’s so pretty, and Kyle’s heart sinks. Is he that desensitized to death? Is he that used to the idea of getting blood on everything? She hoists her gun higher. “I said down! Hands behind your head!” She tilts her head at the woman cowering behind the counter. “The money, honey. Make it snappy, please. Now this is how it’s going to go. No one calls the police, no one gets killed, I get out of here with my money and everybody’s happy.” Kyle kneels with the masses, hands together behind his head, and she looks around. Kyle can see her face now, she’s wearing a delicate mask, white and Venetian and half covering and with gold accents around her eyes and smiling and-

And red lipstick. Ruby red lipstick and white teeth and ruby red lipstick and Kyle is back in that apartment and his mother is back on the floor, white pills past her ruby red lips and God, and God, and God, and  _ God _ , he can’t breathe, what happened to all the oxygen in this place, why can’t he breathe, why can’t he  _ breathe _ ? His mother’s voice is shouting at him, telling him to take slow breaths, but he knows it’s not real, he knows, he knows, and she is echoing in his ears.

“Hey, are you okay?” There’s a voice right next to him and he opens his eyes that he didn’t know were closed and she is standing right over him, concern written across her face and ruby red lipstick and ruby red lips and Kyle still can’t breathe. “Buddy, buddy, c’mon, I don’t want you to die here, I’m not trying to kill anyone today. Take deep breaths for me, take deep breaths.” Ruby- “In.” red- “Out.”  _ lips _ . “Again.” And Kyle still can’t force oxygen down his throat and everyone is watching in utter silence as this criminal kneels before him and moves his hands from behind his head and lays them flat against the floor. The tile is cool beneath his fingers, the tile is grounding beneath his fingers. “Dude, c’mon, you’re okay, you’re okay, is there anything you need? Man. Man, listen to me, everything’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.” Kyle closes his eyes again. Ruby red lips. “No, no, no no, open your eyes, man. Open your ey- What are you doing?!” And Kyle flinches back because it is so loud and there is blood in his hair and it’s dripping down his ears and God it’s going to get everywhere. “Oh my God, not you, the girl just gave me the money and it freaked me out, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, can I do anything for you? Anything? What do you need?” There’s the sound of a distant siren and Kyle closes his eyes tighter. “Shit, which one of you called the cops? You fuckers, I’m trying to help an innocent guy who’s having a panic attack and you betray me like this? Shit, alright, you’re coming with.” Kyle is pulled to his feet and his eyes open in shock and the woman is dragging him along and he stumbles over his own feet, but she doesn’t release her hold on him.

She takes him out the back, shoves him into the passenger side of a non-descript car, and slides into the driver’s seat. Kyle buries his head in his hands, what is happening, what is happening, what is happening, this could only happen to him. He doesn’t notice that the car has stopped until there’s a hand on his arm and his head jerks up and they’re somewhere on the outskirts of the city and the scenery isn’t moving.

“You alright?” She asks, she’s taken off the mask now and she looks so worried. She snaps in his face. “Dude. Anything I can do for you? Buddy boy, what do you need?” And Kyle’s heart is hammering in his chest still, he can’t get it to be still, he needs it to fall still because he thinks that he might be dying. 

“The- the lipstick.” Kyle manages, eyes flicking downwards, staring at his jeans instead of at her, at the ruby red. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it’s so stupid, it just, I don’t know, I don’t know, I’m sorry, I’m s-”

“Dude, stop apologizing!” She chuckles, cutting him off. “I just robbed a bank, you don’t have to apologize to me, it’s fine, really, trust me. Everybody has weird things that set them off, you don’t have to worry about it. Is this better?” Kyle glances up at her and her lips are pink now and there’s a smear of red on the collar of her dress, she’s ruined her dress. “Good?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m sorry.” Kyle apologizes again and she shakes her head.

“Dude, it’s  _ fine _ . I’m Ian, by the way, resident criminal with a fucked up gender identity.” She grins and Kyle can appreciate it much more now that it’s not so red. He shouldn’t be, though, he really shouldn’t be, she just robbed a bank. She just robbed a bank and here he is in her car apologizing to her and she is talking to him, God, she’s talking to him. “Nice to meet you.”

“Kyle. Kyle Bosman.” Kyle winces. “Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have told you my full name. That might’ve been a mistake. And, uh. Uh, what pronouns…?”

“Oh!” She looks pleasantly surprised. “Any, I’m not particular. And don’t worry about your name, alright? I try not to drag civs into this stuff, but you were kind of panicking so I kind of panicked and then I decided that we’d be better off panicking together.. Sorry.”

“I’m not a civilian.” Kyle says, voice soft. Ian blinks.

“Oh. Well, shit, then. That kind of makes this complicated.” Ian sighs, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. “You’ve seen my face, man. I kind of go to certain lengths to make sure this stays hidden. Alright, uh, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll take you back to my apartment and we’re going to talk this out. Sound like a plan?” Kyle nods even though he really just wants to go home, but she has a gun and he doesn’t and she is in the position of power here.

“Yeah. And I’m sorry about the lipstick.”

“Dude. Kyle. It is  _ fine _ . I’m sorry I made you have a panic attack in the middle of a God damn bank. I may be a criminal, but I’m not heartless.”

Ian’s apartment is much better than his. Like at least six times better. Ian shuts the door once they’re both in.

“Is that you, Ian?” Somebody calls from the other room.

“Yeah. Who else would it be?” Ian questions.

“Hell if I know.” The person chuckles. “How’d the bank go?”

“Fine.” Ian slots his key onto a hook. “Got a friend with me.” She beckons Kyle to follow her into a kitchen. “Say hi, Huber.” The guy, Huber, looks up from his laptop at the counter, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Hi…?” Huber offers, sounding slightly confused. “Who are you?” 

“Kyle Bosman, meet Michael Huber, mass murderer and tech extraordinaire.” Ian waves her hand and Huber huffs. “Michael Huber, meet Kyle Bosman, the guy who I made have a panic attack while trying to rob a bank.”

“Ian, what-?” Huber presses a hand to his face. “I won’t ask. Saying it right now, I won’t ask. And I’m not really a mass murderer, don’t believe Ian.”

“Huber, you killed a man with a carrot.” Ian points out. “A carrot. A vegetable you can find in a garden. I can’t eat them anymore because of you.”

“The weapon does not make the murderer.” Huber shakes his head. “And I thought that I told you to not bring civilians around.”

“I’m not a civilian. That’s why Ian brought me back.” Kyle explains and Huber looks at him for a second.

“Stand still.” Huber pulls out his phone and Kyle blinks as he snaps a picture and then he’s tapping away on his screen.

“What are you doing?” Kyle asks and Huber shrugs.

“Nothing.” He says and Kyle decides not to dispute it even though he is very obviously doing something. His laptop chimes and Huber types something in, quickly. “So, how are you?”

“Fine?” Kyle hedges and Ian groans.

“Look, just ignore him, he’s trying to find if there’s any evidence of you in any servers anywhere.” Ian says, shaking her head at Huber. “He does it with everybody.”

“You’re good at being elusive.” Huber compliments, not looking up from his laptop. “I can only match you up to one kill and it’s only because you’re wearing the same hoodie, so good on you.”

“Thanks…?” Kyle says and Huber nods.

“You’re good at this. What’s your kill count?” He asks. “If you’re comfortable with telling me.”

“Uh, I’m not really sure. If I was back at my apartment, I could tell you.” Kyle thinks back to the drawer in his kitchen.

“You keep a tally?” Huber looks surprised. “I didn’t know people still did that, I thought it was something people just knew off the top of their head.”

“I don’t have a tally, I keep I.D.’s. And I don’t really like thinking about it.” Kyle bites his lip. Huber looks apologetic.

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t even think about that.” Huber says and Kyle shrugs.

“It’s okay, really, it’s kind of dumb anyway. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get over it eventually.”

Somehow they manage to avoid discussing the whole name and face and possibility of blackmail thing. Then it’s midnight and Kyle is still at their apartment and they’re eating Digiorno’s pizza and sitting on the roof. The sinking sun sets the city aflame in oranges and ruby red.

“Do you have a group?” Ian asks and it’s kind of out of nowhere, but then it’s also kind of not.

“No. I haven’t been in one for years. Joined one when I was sixteen. Got kind of, uh, kicked out with disgrace when I was twenty.” Kyle rubs the back of his hair awkwardly, he can feel the blood, God, he can feel the blood, and his hand comes away clean under his gaze, under his scrutiny, and he tucks it back into his hoodie, trying to shake off the sticky feeling. 

“How do you get kicked out of a gang with disgrace?” Huber asks, shaking his head, and Kyle notices that Ian stays quiet, gaze directed down at the city laid out like a circuit board below them, flashing and blinking.

“Don’t do what they want, for one. Make them lose money. I lost them a lot of money. Hundreds of thousands worth, probably. I was surprised when they didn’t kill me in that alley.” Kyle chuckles, bitterly. He’s allowed to be bitter. He should honestly be a lot more bitter.

“Okay, well I guess that’s how.” Huber says, it’s so simple a response and for some reason, for some stupid, stupid reason, Kyle wants to cry. He doesn’t. But he wants to. “Do you have anywhere to be tonight?”

“No.” Kyle shakes his head.

“What about next week?” Huber asks again and Ian groans.

“Dude, c’mon. Don’t be all weird about this.” She shakes her head and looks at Kyle. “You want to work with us? You’re good and quiet and, well, stealth isn’t exactly my forte. Or Huber’s. Like, I don’t know if you’ve been listening to him, but he is literally unable to whisper. It was a tragic childhood accident, really. And Huber can’t find anything out about you, which means that you’re really good at what you do. Will you give it a go, though? We could use someone like you to kind of balance us out. Or at least get us to a more even ground.”

“You in?” Huber asks and he’s grinning and Ian is smiling and Kyle looks out over the city, towards the ocean, ruby red in the dying light.

“O-okay. Okay. Yeah. We can try it.” Kyle nods and Ian whoops.

“Yeah! Plus one Bosman!” Ian throws her fist up in one of those stereotypical video game poses.

“Don’t call me that.” He won’t enforce that rule. Well, he’ll try at first, but then it grows on him because it’s a  _ nickname _ and he’s never had one of those before and it’s so dumb, but it makes him feel like he belongs. 

**Author's Note:**

> so hey. this was a welcome distraction from my other stories. also i don't think there are any other gta eza fics so i don't know. this is going to be a three parter, so stick around if you want to  
> you can find me on tumblr @ taptaptapping.tumblr.com and i'm usually talking about ian hinck or kyle bosman or one of those other dorks


End file.
